An old poem I found
so i sit on the edge,
of my sick brother's bed.
he pats me on the back,
in a struggling attempt to show how much he cares,
but how the weight of his fatigue keeps him grounded.
I want to die,
i whisper to the dark, really no one at all.
he tells me he needs me,
and that i'm of good use.
he's trying, and thats important to me,
but i can't just sit and stay,
so i turn and walk away,
he mumbles something incoherently,
and turns, nodding back to sleep.
Take a left down the stairs,
she'll show you all of the gray hairs,
caused by me,
my problematic capability.
She screams at me,
saying its how everyone feels
Adolescense it just LIKE this.
She hated her life as a kid.
I tell her,
this is what it's made up of.
stop shifting these hatefilled memories,
childhood tales, what teenagehood entails.
i don't want to know,
i want to sleep for a while.
upstairs there's an artist.
strumming on steel, scribbling on paper,
he depicts these emotions,
and uses this vice as a trash can,
disposing of any personal connection
with wanting and losing and never having.
I talk to this graying figure down the stairs,
to the left.
i try to explain my emptiness,
what you see's what you get.
she tells me i'm melodramatic,
that it was about her not wanting me to wear ripped jeans.
but its not the criticism,
it's what it means.
how all of these things swirl together,
and how i'm losing sight of what keeps me from running to the parallel lines, and feeling the gasoline and bright lights swirl as they enter my bones.
i understand that others have felt like this before,
i don't think i'm original for it,
and i don't think it's cool.
i see those commercials, read those books,
hear those stories of adults who suffer from the gray.
refuse to get out of bed, shift responsibility to their children.
i understand its a struggle for you too,
i know you have skeletons in your closet,
when you try to get dressed in the morning.
but its hard to do,
when you're so young.
when the gray isn't caused by something,
it can't be fixed by something.
a good night's sleep is all i need,
to calm these brittle bones.
another night,
sleep it off,
resist the itch to make this sleep eternal.
I wrote this earlier this year, and never used it for anything.
of my sick brother's bed.
he pats me on the back,
in a struggling attempt to show how much he cares,
but how the weight of his fatigue keeps him grounded.
I want to die,
i whisper to the dark, really no one at all.
he tells me he needs me,
and that i'm of good use.
he's trying, and thats important to me,
but i can't just sit and stay,
so i turn and walk away,
he mumbles something incoherently,
and turns, nodding back to sleep.
Take a left down the stairs,
she'll show you all of the gray hairs,
caused by me,
my problematic capability.
She screams at me,
saying its how everyone feels
Adolescense it just LIKE this.
She hated her life as a kid.
I tell her,
this is what it's made up of.
stop shifting these hatefilled memories,
childhood tales, what teenagehood entails.
i don't want to know,
i want to sleep for a while.
upstairs there's an artist.
strumming on steel, scribbling on paper,
he depicts these emotions,
and uses this vice as a trash can,
disposing of any personal connection
with wanting and losing and never having.
I talk to this graying figure down the stairs,
to the left.
i try to explain my emptiness,
what you see's what you get.
she tells me i'm melodramatic,
that it was about her not wanting me to wear ripped jeans.
but its not the criticism,
it's what it means.
how all of these things swirl together,
and how i'm losing sight of what keeps me from running to the parallel lines, and feeling the gasoline and bright lights swirl as they enter my bones.
i understand that others have felt like this before,
i don't think i'm original for it,
and i don't think it's cool.
i see those commercials, read those books,
hear those stories of adults who suffer from the gray.
refuse to get out of bed, shift responsibility to their children.
i understand its a struggle for you too,
i know you have skeletons in your closet,
when you try to get dressed in the morning.
but its hard to do,
when you're so young.
when the gray isn't caused by something,
it can't be fixed by something.
a good night's sleep is all i need,
to calm these brittle bones.
another night,
sleep it off,
resist the itch to make this sleep eternal.
I wrote this earlier this year, and never used it for anything.
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